THE RESCUE.
When the wave, which Cheyne had seen approaching, struck him, he was
dashed violently against the rock behind. Fortunately he had got round
the corner of the opening. Had he happened to be in the gap, he would
to a certainty have been hurled through it into the sheltered water
inside the reef, and the chances are that, if he had been thus taken
unawares, he would have been killed in that gap. Another thing too,
had been in his favour: the rock against which he had been thrown had
a small cleft in it, and into this cleft he had been jambed by the
force of the water. This fact prevented him from being knocked down
and carried away.
Before another wave could strike him, he had extricated himself, and
was ready to meet it. Crouching down in the recess, he bent his head,
and received the full force of the weight on his crown. The moment the
water fell he rose to his feet, and looked around. He was standing on
a smooth piece of rock about level with the still water. On each side
of him were irregular rocks, a man's height, resting on a bed of flat
rock, not more than a few inches submerged in the intervals between
the billows.
He looked up, and could now see the yacht forty or fifty yards off to
the south-east of where he stood. He had not heard the cheer which
went up from the crew when they caught sight of him, and guessed his
mission. The crew did not see him until the wave which stunned him for
a moment was upon him.
But while his strength was failing him, his object seemed as far from
accomplishment as ever. He had now come to the end of the line, and he
was still unable to reach the yacht. To venture among those low rocks
out there, and face the waves, would be to court almost certain death;
for it would be impossible for any one who, like him, knew absolutely
nothing of the place, to move more than a couple of feet a minute, as
it would be necessary for him to explore with his feet or hands every
inch of the way he took, lest he should step into a hole. In case he
attempted to run and missed his footing, and got into a hole, a wave
would surely be upon him before he could recover himself, and then all
would be lost.
Ail these thoughts passed through his mind with the rapidity of
lightning. When he had done with them he looked up at the yacht.
They had not been idle there. Already a man was out on the
foremast-head with a coil of rope. The man waited for the next wave to
pass; then, when he saw Cheyne stand up once more, he threw the coil.
Fortunately the wind was almost fair for the rope, and it fell within
two feet of Cheyne. In an instant it was in his hand. In a few minutes
more it was bent to the line Cheyne had tied round his wrist. Then
Cheyne loosened the line from his wrist; he had not done so before
lest by some mistake or failure of his strength--which he found
momentarily giving way--the shore-line might be carried away before
the communication had been established.
Then he drew in the slack of the line from the yacht until he had
fifty or sixty yards to spare. He wound the line twice round him, and
seizing the yacht end of the line, plunged forward through the shallow
water. The men on board the yacht drew in the slack of the line, so as
to keep it taut without putting any strain upon him.
He heard a roller burst upon the weather-side of the reef, and plunged
forward with all his remaining force to reach the yacht before it was
upon him.
At that moment he swayed suddenly forward and disappeared from view.
He had fallen into one of holes he had feared to meet. As he did so,
the tawny-headed monsters of the water dashed hissing in and swept
over the pool in which he lay.
The conditions of this pool were very different from the low-level
waters in the gap. Here the lower water was almost wholly undisturbed
laterally, for the water, the plain of rock in which the hole was, lay
almost on a level with the still water, and the water in the pool was
consequently almost undisturbed by the waves.
Cheyne rose in a few seconds close to the spot where he sank. The men
in the yacht had hauled in the line softly when they saw him come to
the surface, and thus they drew him across the hole. In a few seconds
he was once more upright, and before another wave had time to reach
him he had gained the yacht. Just as they hauled him up the side, the
water rose and touched him once more.
But this time it was powerless to hurt him, and with a cheer from
those on board, he was drawn over the bulwark of the lee-side.
He was almost insensible. His shirt and drawers were torn into shreds,
and beat in rags about him in the wind. He was bleeding from twenty
wounds, not one of which, however, was dangerous. The line had chafed
through his shirt at the waist, and a livid circle marked where it had
tightened upon him. His left wrist was torn and discoloured by the
coil, and his hands, feet, and knees were covered with bruises and
small cuts from his conflict in the narrow passage.
They had to support him as he stood, while they forced some brandy
down his throat. Up from the forecastle they brought blankets and
wrapped them round him. It was some minutes before he had sufficiently
recovered to speak.
In the meantime the sailors had not been idle.
Captain Drew was competent and energetic. He knew the yacht would not
hold together very much longer, and that every second was of vital
importance. Already the block had been lashed for the whip, the whip
was rove, and the men on shore were now pulling in the whip by means
of the line Cheyne had carried out.
When Cheyne was first carried up windward, both the Duke and the
Marquis went up to him and thanked him cordially, and commended his
valour. Then they saw he was not in a position to understand them, so
they contented themselves with superintending the application of
blankets and the administration of brandy, now and then lending a hand
to support his drooping figure. All on the yacht saw he was a
stranger. They had seen the attempt and failure of Bence. They had
seen this other man, this strange man, strip and jump in with the
rope; and then they had seen nothing of him until he emerged from that
narrow opening in the rock and encountered the first wave. While he
was swimming towards them unseen, they were not ignorant of his
progress, for repeated signals from the men on shore kept them
informed of the way he made.
At the moment Cheyne dived, the Duke turned to the captain and asked
him what he thought was the chance of success.
"Bence has tried, and Bence has failed," answered Drew, with a shake
of the head. There was no need to say more. The captain's opinion was
plainly expressed by his words and manner. Bence had tried to swim out
to the yacht with a rope, had failed, and there was no likelihood any
other man would succeed.
But as time went on, and the men on shore signalled by an outward
gesture of the arms, as in swimming, and by then holding up an arm for
each opening passed, the excitement on board the yacht became intense.
The captain ordered a man to the masthead with a rope; he also ordered
another man aloft to cut away the topmast, so as to lighten her above.
For now he had begun to hope.
The reason why it was utterly impossible for a man to swim from the
yacht to the shore was simple enough. In order to do so it would be
necessary to cross that comparatively open space between the yacht and
the narrow passage, and to enter the passage with one's back to the
source of danger. This alone was an enormous difficulty, added to the
others already existing. But what prevented any member of the crew
trying to swim ashore was the conviction that no human being could
ever get through that passage with life. Bence had more than a local
reputation as a swimmer, and anyone could understand his trying to do
what no other man would attempt.
When at last the signal came that Cheyne had reached the seventh
passage, the excitement on board became intense. Only a few seconds
had before elapsed between the signal that Bence had entered and the
signal that he had failed. Now minutes went by, and the men on board
saw that the men ashore had not begun to draw in the line or made any
signal of recall. The eyes of every man were now fixed on the mouth of
the passage.
"If he does it," said the captain, "he deserves a monument."
"And he shall have it," said the Duke. No one had the least clue as to
what station in life Cheyne belonged. The sailors assumed he was a
seafaring man of some kind, because he would have been a credit to
their class. While bathing it is difficult to recognise in the water
an acquaintance until you hear his voice. But although Cheyne was
battered and ragged and marred, there was something about him which
told the Duke of Shropshire that the man who had come to the rescue
was not an ordinary sailor. You can always tell a sailor by his hands;
and the Duke saw by this man's hands that he had not had any long
dealing with ropes. The hand was small and powerful, but the knuckles
were not abnormally developed, and the nails were smooth and fine.
The men both ashore and on board worked with a will. The whip had been
hauled ashore, and the block of it made fast; and now they were
hauling the hawser to the beach. Once the hawser was made fast to the
anchor on the knoll, they could begin sending the men ashore.
Meanwhile men had been busy in the ship preparing the jackets for the
warp. The hawser was new and strong. The whip was of unusual
thickness, and, as time was the only thing which could now beat them.
Captain Drew decided that two men should go at a time.
Two deep baskets were lashed to a short spar, and then firmly to one
another top and bottom. The spar was then secured to two patent
blocks, and these patent blocks were slipped in on the hawser and
secured. All now was ready for the first two men to go ashore.
Meanwhile Cheyne had recovered to a great extent. He was now able to
stand alone. They had brought him clothes, which he had put on, and
although he began to feel cold and sick the stiffness of reaction had
not yet set in.
Cheyne was standing with his right arm round a pump, his blood-stained
face dropped into his bloodstained hand, and his eyes fixed on the man
he had sworn to destroy. The Duke and the Marquis stood by the weather
rigging, anxiously watching the men at work on the baskets and hawser.
The captain stood at the lee-rigging, looking up at the men aloft.
When all was ready, he crossed the deck and said to the Duke:
"Now, your grace, all is ready for you and his lordship."
The Duke pointed his long lean finger at Cheyne and said:
"That man must go first."
The captain drew back to the mast in surprise.
"But, your grace, I am afraid there is danger in delay."
The water was at every wave bursting over the rocks to the windward
and rushing from aft along the deck, so that it was impossible to
stand without holding on to something.
"There was danger for him when he swam with the rope. He and my son
must go first. I will remain. My life is nearly done. If one is to
die, let it be me."
As the Duke said this the captain noticed a change come over the
Marquis. His eyes closed, his knees bent under him, and he fell to the
deck. He had fainted. The relief of knowing there was now a chance of
all of them being saved had been too much, and his exhausted strength
had broken down under the reaction.
The men carried the insensible man to the basket, and lashed him in
it.
"You are to go with the Marquis," said the captain to Cheyne.
"Go where?"
"Ashore in the sling. And here's a flask of brandy. His lordship has
fainted. Give him some brandy as you are hauled ashore."
Cheyne took the flask.
"Who says I am to go ashore the first trip?"
"His grace the Duke."
"But does he know why I have come here, and who I am?"
"No, I don't think so. But do not waste any more time. If we are to
escape, there must be no loss of time."
"Of course not," thought Cheyne. "The Duke may not know who I am, or
anything about me. How could he know me? I have not told my name to
anyone here. I thought it would be fine vengeance to come down here
and kill this weakling. But would it not be a finer revenge to save
him, and then, when he has recovered, declare who I am, and ask if it
were likely I, who had risked my life to save him and his father from
death, had written that book with an unworthy motive or could be the
son of an unworthy mother? Yes, by all means, let me give what help I
can."
Without a moment's hesitation he allowed himself to be hoisted up to
the basket and secured.
The Marquis had not yet recovered. His head was drooping on his chest;
his arms were hanging down lifelessly at his side. When Cheyne had got
into the basket, and the men were lashing him, he supported the
drooping head, and pressed the mouth of the flask against the white
lips of the insensible man. They were above the reach of large bodies
of water, but they were still deluged with heavy sheets of spray.
The gale not only continued to blow, but increased in fury. Every wave
flung tons of water over the deck, and the difficulty of maintaining a
position on it increased each minute.
The Duke was still standing by the weather-rigging. With his right
hand he hung on by a ratlin. Already the seams of the planks on which
the men stood began to gape, and when the water rushed up from the
after end of the yacht and struck against the forecastle bulkhead
below, it squirted up through the opening seams.
Twice had the Duke been forced from his hold and cast against the
mast. He declined to be lashed. But he was no longer young, and his
hold on the ratlin was not nearly as firm as it might be. The very
smallness of the line, while it enabled him to grasp it round
completely, tended to numb the hand. He felt cold and wretched. The
wind and wetting had begun to produce pains in his shoulder more
intense than any he had felt before.
The signal had been given by the man at the mast-head to the men on
shore to haul in, and already the baskets had begun to glide away from
the yacht, when a shout of warning and terror came from the man at the
mast-head.
"On deck there, hold on for your lives!" shouted the man aloft.
The words were hardly out of his mouth when a huge wave, larger by far
than any other which had struck the ill-fated yacht, burst upon her,
and covered her with boiling torrents of tawny water, hissing foam,
and swishing spray.
When the water cleared away two men were missing, a sailor and
Reginald Francis Henry Cheyne, seventh Duke of Shropshire.
The men uttered a cry of dismay. Ropes were thrown, and two lifebuoys,
which were secured to the pump-case. But neither the sailor nor the
Duke was ever again seen alive by anyone on board that wreck. Before
the nobleman, who left the _Seabird_ as Marquis Southwold, and Charles
Augustus Cheyne reached the shore, the Duke of Shropshire had died,
and George Temple Cheyne, late Marquis of Southwold, was eighth Duke
of Shropshire and virtual owner of four hundred thousand a year, five
princely residences, and of all the power and influence of the great
house.
Next day the bodies of the Duke and the sailor were found in a little
cove at the top of the bay, and hard by the two a book in three
volumes, bound with a string which was chafed and broken at the loose
end. On opening these volumes they were found to be "The Duke of
Fenwick: a Novel. By Charles Augustus Cheyne." The facts that the book
had been found near the body of the dead nobleman, and that it had
something to do with a duke, led the simple people who found it to
believe that it had only come ashore from the wreck, and that it was
in some way or other connected with the person of the late Duke, so
they sent it up to the Castle in the same carriage with the body.
In that same carriage, on the day before, the present Duke and the
bruised and battered Cheyne had been driven from the place where they
had landed to Silverview Castle, above Silver Bay, the residence of
the Duke of Shropshire.